


Friday

by walkthegale



Series: We’ll Start Over Again [1]
Category: Teachers (UK TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Episode Tag, F/F, Femslash, Ficlet, Light Angst, Masturbation, Pre-Femslash, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 08:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13244505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkthegale/pseuds/walkthegale
Summary: “No, let me get you one. Scotch?”A coda to season 1, episode 4.





	Friday

Peter never remembers her drink.

He never remembers, and he never asks. He goes to the bar, and comes back with a glass of red on a day that clearly requires something strong and neat to sear the back of her throat, or he hands her something sweet and lurid and sticky, when all she wants is a pint.

She’s alone that night, lying on their bed and she hasn’t even bothered to take her clothes off yet. Peter’s left for his fucking conference that she knows he never told her about, and the house is empty and echoes and this is such a bullshit cliché she can’t stand it. It’s just been a really long fucking week, and she could do with someone to hold her right now, but she’s half-drunk and there’s no one in her bed, and the thing… the thing that’s going around in her back of her head is a conciliatory smile and dark eyes that hold hers for just a second too long.

_“No, let me get you one. Scotch?”_

Shit. What the fuck.

Think about something else. Anything else. Anyone else. Not Peter. Think about Simon. Oh god, Simon and his fucking meltdown about three sodding days without sex.

 _“There’s nothing wrong with our sex life,”_   Peter said over dinner with Simon and Maggie and could he have sounded more panicked if he’d tried? Fuck.

She doesn’t remember when she last had sex. God, that’s a sad state of affairs. No, wait, that’s not true, it was two weeks ago, maybe three, and it was ok. Quite nice, really.

Think about that, think about Peter. Think about maybe shagging him again when he gets back from this trip. She could meet him at the door in her underwear, like she did that time not long after they were married, and, shit, he probably doesn’t care and if she’s honest, neither does she.

_“Maybe you should start thinking about the signals you give out.”_

Christ, had she really said that to Jenny?

Heat of the moment. She really doesn’t remember the last time she lost control like that with anyone, not in an argument, and not… Well, not under any other circumstances either.

She shouldn’t have had that last drink. She should have gone home earlier and then she’d be asleep right now, and ok, maybe she’s a touch closer to completely pissed than she’d realised, but god, she just wants someone to touch her. To want her.

She’s managed to unbutton her jeans at some point, and she slides her hand inside and over damp cotton and fuck it, if no one else wants to fuck her tonight, she might as well fuck herself.

Dark eyes and dark hair and that smirk of a smile that sends something right through Susan that she hasn’t got words for right now.

That smile, looking down at her, eyes as intense as they were in the classroom when they fought, firm, purposeful hands on her bare body, down her sides and at her waist and over her stomach, raising trails of goosebumps everywhere they touch.

Susan’s fingers have made their way inside her knickers, and she’s wetter than she knew, and she bucks her hips up, grinding against her own hand.

Her mouth. Jenny’s mouth, breath hot against Susan’s skin, closing on her breast, tongue drawing a warm, wet circle around her nipple, kissing a path from one breast to the other. Jenny looking up at her as she works her clever fingertips over Susan’s clit, just where Susan’s own hand does right now.

She pushes her finger inside, one, then another. Are Jenny’s fingers longer than hers? Would they reach deeper inside her? Would she know just how to move them, just when to curl and twist to make Susan... to make Susan…

God, she’s close. She needs more. She shoves at her jeans, moves them just enough that she can use other hand on her clit while she keeps two fingers buried inside herself.

Kissing Jenny, deeply and frantically, messily, nipping at her bottom lip, as Jenny fucks her, as Jenny’s fingers find a rhythm on her clit and she, god, and she keeps going, and Susan gasps and whimpers and digs her nails into the soft skin of Jenny’s back.

She comes, and it rolls right through her, with a deep, low moan that might have been Jenny’s name. She feels herself flutter around her fingers, someone else’s fingers, her own fingers inside someone else, feeling someone else’s, _Jenny’s_ , orgasm take her apart.

She’s thought about women before. Sometimes. Not generally ones she works with, but it’s not a big deal. She absolutely won’t be thinking about this when she sees Jenny at school on Monday, or next time she has sex with Peter, or tomorrow morning, when she wakes up tired and hungover and has to fight the urge to stay in bed (and do this all over again).

Dark eyes and dark hair and that fucking smile.

Susan rouses herself long enough to drag her jeans the rest of the way off and chuck them on the floor. The room tips and sways a bit around her, and she falls asleep wishing vaguely that the bed didn’t smell so much like Peter.

Fuck.


End file.
